Reflections
by more-than-words
Summary: Drabbles and ficlets based on prompts, random inspiration and general fluffy nonsense.
1. Chapter 1

**A drabble for eggwhisker, who gave me a prompt of 'soft furnishings'. It turned out fluffy – hope it's okay!**

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><p>"Ruth, it's purple."<p>

"Yes, it is."

"It's _purple._"

"And what's wrong with that?"

"It's in my house."

"It's very comfortable."

"I'm sure it is, but –"

"And Harry, the rugby is still manly when you're watching it on a purple sofa, I promise."

"But…"

"You told me to buy soft furnishings. I even asked you what you wanted. You said 'something comfortable'. And it is comfortable. Come and try."

"… okay, it is comfortable."

"Well, then."

"But it's purple."

"It could've been pink. Or puce." She leant over and kissed him gently.

He swallowed. "I'll learn to live with it."

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><p><strong>If anyone else wants a drabbleficlet/so****me random fluffy words, leave a prompt and I'll do it, er, promptly. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Prompt: honey. For Lady J Scarlett :) **

**Also, apologies for accidentally stealing someone else's title. I am a fool (you've probably all worked this out by now, anyway) and have changed it… Anyhoo, onwards…**

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><p>Ruth replayed the conversation in her head, hoping she'd misheard him. But no. She'd been right the first time. She fixed Harry with a look.<p>

He instantly looked guilty. "Oh God, what?"

"You just called me honey."

Guilt was turning to slight bashfulness. "Yes, I did. Did you not like it?"

"I think you've been spending too much time with the cousins, Harry."

He looked a bit hurt and she thought she'd better backtrack.

"I mean, it's not like I don't appreciate the sentiment, but… I don't think terms of endearment are really me. Besides…" It was her turn to be a bit bashful. "I like the way you say my real name."

Harry smiled. "Well, that's good." He stood up from the table and picked up the empty breakfast things, along with the pot of honey that had prompted his foray into cutesy nicknames in the first place. He planted a kiss on the top of her head as he passed her and whispered in her ear, voice low and gravelly, "Ruth."

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><p><strong>Bit more than a drabble, because 100 words are just not enough…<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Prompt: dictionary. For the classicist. It went a bit weird and long, so I hope it's okay! :) Oh, and assume that Harry and Ruth are a couple for this to work…**

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><p>The sound outside the front door of her flat made her jump. Ruth looked up from her books and listened, hoping she was imagining things.<p>

There was silence for a few seconds, then another loud shuffling noise started somewhere in the vicinity of her door…

She felt her heart rate increase as she carefully reached out and grabbed a heavy book from her desk – a dictionary. It would have to do as a weapon. She hoped she was just being paranoid, but when the strange sound came again, she felt real fear start to creep in.

Silently, she moved towards the front door and then hesitated. Should she wait for whoever was out there to do something, or should she make the first move?

No, she decided. Neither. She moved back a couple of paces and picked up the phone she kept in the hallway. Balancing the phone between ear and shoulder, she kept one hand closed around the hardback dictionary and dialled Harry's number with the other. She wasn't very impressed with him due to his being a monumental git earlier in the day, but she supposed she could swallow her pride for a genuine emergency.

The phone started ringing… and so did a phone out in the hallway, beyond the door to her flat.

The shuffling that had been going on turned to muffled swearing and she heard Harry's voice say, "Bugger!"

Fear gone and now replaced by anger, Ruth put the phone down and went and jerked open the door. Harry stood there, fumbling in his pocket and eventually pulling out his phone. He looked up at her a little sheepishly.

"What the hell are you doing?" It occurred to her that she was still holding the dictionary a little menacingly, but that wasn't her main concern just then.

"I was… coming to see you."

"What was all the noise?"

"You heard that."

She nodded.

"Ah. Right. I was, er, pacing."

She had to fight down the smile that threatened to spread across her face. "Pacing?"

"Yes. And thinking. To work out exactly how I was going to apologise to you for earlier."

"For when you were being a git?"

"Yes."

"You could've just knocked on my door, you know."

"I know, but…" He trailed off and looked at her right hand. "Is that a dictionary?"

"Yes." She shoved it at him and turned back into her flat. "You can use it look up the word idiot. Then you can come and make me a cup of tea to apologise for frightening the life out of me with all your noise. And then you can make it up to me for earlier. Use the dictionary if you feel in need of some unusual yet precise adjectives."

She could've sworn she'd heard him gulping in apprehension. Oh, this was going to be fun.


	4. Chapter 4

**Prompt: suitcase. For Deskspook. Apparently I suck at drabbles, because these things are just getting longer and longer. Oh well! This one went a wee bit angsty...**

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><p>She's sitting in a café not far from her house, drinking a cup of stewed tea and enjoying the indulgence of getting lost in her thoughts, when suddenly the object of her thoughts sits down in front of her.<p>

She hasn't seen him in a good while; he's been suspended from work and banned from all contact. She's been banned from contacting him, too: a rather stern word from an Internal Affairs man had told her that. "And don't think we won't know if you do," the man had said, his parting shot, clearly trying to be intimidating.

Ruth doesn't even want to think about what Harry must've done to escape his minders to come and find her in a café on a grey Saturday morning.

"Hi," he says quietly, taking care to tuck in his chair carefully, so it doesn't make any noise that might attract attention from the few people who are up and out so early in the day.

She's not sure what to say to him. There are lots of things she wants to say, but she senses that this isn't the time for in depth discussions of who did what and why and what happens now. He seems agitated, which isn't that surprising, but he also seems a little twitchy, which is. It suggests he's nervous, even a little fearful. She's instantly on edge.

"Harry?"

He smiles at her softly and opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but he can't quite find the words. Instead, he takes her hand and strokes his thumb once over her skin before pulling away again and replacing his touch with a padded envelope pulled from his pocket.

He looks out of the window of the café, eyes alert as though scanning for anyone who might be following. He nods, sadly, like it's time to go and turns back to her with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

Ruth doesn't know what to say, so she just sits there, one hand wrapped around her tea mug and the other holding the padded envelope, her mind unable to settle on any one thing to say to him.

"Open it at home," Harry says, nodding to the envelope.

"Okay." Well. One word is better than nothing, she supposes.

"I hope…" he starts and then trails off, catching himself before he can say… what?

Then he stands up and it's then that she sees the small suitcase he's placed by his feet. It isn't very large, big enough for a week's worth of clothes at most, if he's thrifty. Something shifts inside her as she realises that this is something more than just Harry breaking the rules to see her.

He's got a suitcase. She wants to know why.

It must show on her face because he taps the hand that's holding the envelope as if to say, _in there. It's all in there._

She bloody hopes it is.

Then he leans in and kisses her. Just cups the back of her head with one hand and presses his lips to hers, lingering for a few seconds before pulling away and leaving her with what she assumes must be a stunned expression.

He looks torn and he watches her for a few seconds more before glancing at the clock on the wall and nodding as though he's made his decision; now he has to follow it through.

He leaves the café, carrying the small suitcase in one hand and disappears off into the grey of the early morning, leaving her alone with a mug of cooling tea, a mysterious envelope, a sense of loss and the sense of something else, something perhaps just starting to begin.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading!<strong>

**Quite tempted to turn this into something longer, maybe… Hmmm.**


	5. Chapter 5

**For mamzalini. Prompt at the end. It didn't entirely turn out as planned, but… hope you like it anyway :)**

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><p>The room was dark and small and cluttered. The walls were lined with shelves that held… something. It was too dark to see exactly what. Ruth leant back against one of them while Harry extracted a lighter from his pocket and used it to illuminate the room.<p>

It didn't illuminate anything that wasn't within ten centimetres of the flame. Harry tutted in annoyance and put the lighter away.

"That didn't work then?"

"No."

She sighed, biting down the urge to berate him for getting them stuck in what was, essentially, a cupboard. She knew it wasn't really his fault, that if he hadn't ducked in here and pulled her in after him, they would've been caught by some men they didn't particularly want to be caught by, but… there wasn't anyone else available for her to blame.

"Have you got a phone signal now?" Harry asked her.

Ruth pulled out her phone and looked at the display. "No. Have you?"

He checked. "No."

"Ah."

"Someone will find us, don't worry."

"Yes, but let's just hope it's Dimitri who finds us and not those angry Russians with guns."

"I think that's a very good thing to hope for."

She watched Harry move away from the door, his outline made indistinct by the darkness of the room. He stood opposite her and she could tell he was looking at her, or at least in her direction. There must only have been a foot of space between them. She could hear him breathing and wondered if she should say something. "This is such a cliché," she eventually said.

Harry chuckled. "Yes, but it's such a good one, isn't it?"

"We'll see. But it's certainly mad."

"As mad as the fact the UK has to borrow power from France every time EastEnders finishes because 14 million people switch on their kettles at once?"

She thought about it. "It's a close call, I think."

There was a pause. "Well," Harry said after a long, drawn out moment. "As long as we're here with nowhere to go, it seems we have some time on our hands."

"There must be a way out," she said, something in the tone of his voice inspiring her to search for a distraction and a rapid change of topic.

"Yes," Harry agreed, "the door that's currently locked."

They descended into silence then and they both stood awkwardly, neither of them quite knowing what their next move should be. It might have felt like they'd already been stuck in the room forever, but Ruth knew it was probably only fifteen minutes at most – definitely not enough time had passed to make an attempt at breaking down the door. The Russians might well still be in the vicinity.

A light caught her eye and she looked up from the floor to see Harry faffing around with his lighter again, raising his arm and studying as much of the small space as possible. "Look up there," he said.

She looked. She saw nothing. "Where?"

He took her arm in his free hand and pulled her to him so she could share in the light. She stood with her chest brushing against his, his hand still holding her arm just above the elbow. Neither commented on the sudden intimacy.

"Up there," he said again. "It's an air vent."

"And how are we meant to open it?" She hated to be the wet blanket, she really did, especially when she was starting to feel somewhat claustrophobic, but the air vent didn't look particularly accessible.

Harry shrugged. She felt the movement; they were still stood toe to toe and the nearness of him was making her a little dizzy. She was trying not to think about it. They were, after all, technically still on an operation and she needed to stay focused. But Harry's hand was still on her arm and when he put the lighter away in his jacket pocket, his other hand brushed against her chest and she couldn't help the sharp intake of breath that result from the brief touch.

"Sorry," he said, obviously taking it as a rebuke and loosening his grip on her arm.

"Don't be," she said before she could stop herself, putting a hand on his hip to stop him from moving away. She didn't know why. The sensible thing would be to move back to their respective corners of the room and wait until Dimitri realised they hadn't made it out when they should have. But it was hot in the room and the dark was making her feel a bit nervous and, for whatever reason, having Harry close made her feel the slightest bit better.

He seemed to sense it, because then he put his arms around her and pulled her head to his chest, encouraging her to take advantage of the comfort he was offering.

The only problem was, she didn't only feel _comforted_. She was starting to experience some other feelings that had very little, if anything at all, to do with comfort. There was something about the dark, she thought, about acting on instinct that made you behave differently than you might if it was light… She returned Harry's hug and felt him relax into her. She listened to his heartbeat under her cheek, liking the steady, quick pounding of it and wondering if it might not be a little fast.

She could feel her own pulse thudding.

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><p>So could Harry. He took a step backwards, taking Ruth with him so he could lean against one of the shelves and stand more comfortably with her against him. She was warm and boneless against him and he wondered why it took something like this to bring them closer.<p>

He was still keeping half an ear cast towards the door, in case anyone came their way, but most of him was dedicated to wondering if now was finally the right time to get up the courage and kiss her.

Just the thought of it made his pulse speed up.

"Your heart's racing," Ruth mumbled against him.

He smiled even though she couldn't see him. "I know."

"Do you need some space?" She sounded like she'd be disappointed if he did.

"No."

She didn't even try and hide her response. "Good." She squeezed him tighter and Harry wished they were somewhere a little more amenable to romantic happenings.

But then, he thought, there was something oddly freeing about the lack of light and space. It made whatever was currently happening harder to ignore and, therefore, easier to act on.

He shifted position and Ruth lifted her head. He could feel her breath against his chin and he tipped his head down, fumbling with one hand until he found her face and then guided her lips to his. He kissed her softly, in no hurry to rush anything, just enjoying the gentle contact and the little sigh of satisfaction she gave when he tangled his fingers in her hair. He increased the pressure gradually until her lips were moving fluidly against his and they were both a little short of breath, their surroundings practically forgotten.

He thought that if anyone were to interrupt them now – whether it was Dimitri, the Russians or Father Christmas – they would end up being very sorry that they did.

The small locked cupboard perhaps wasn't quite so bad after all.

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><p><strong>So, the prompt was 'a dark, small, enclosed space where they can snog'. Could you tell? Teehee. Thanks for reading!<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Prompt: ladder. For Sparky75. For some reason I found this one ridiculously difficult to do and, as such, it might not make much sense. But it's fluffy, so that's a small success, I guess…**

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><p>Ruth wasn't normally one to worry about clothes, but at 10am one Tuesday morning, she couldn't think of anything else. She'd dressed in a hurry earlier that day, stumbling around all bleary eyed in the dark, not bothering to check what she was putting on.<p>

She hadn't noticed the small hole in her tights when she put them on, but when she sat back down at her desk following Section D's morning meeting, the small hole became a massive ladder up the back of her calf and she certainly noticed it then. The smallest movement caused the ladder to increase in size and within twenty seconds it had made its way to the top of her thigh.

It wouldn't have been a problem if she'd been wearing a long skirt, but typically it was the first time in weeks she'd gone for something knee-length and there was no way she was going around all day with a massive rip up the back of her tights. She was already fairly convinced most of her colleagues thought she was crazy: she didn't want to compound their belief.

Waiting until everyone was distracted, she stood up and quickly darted out of the office and into the ladies. It wasn't quite the season for going round with bare legs, but for today it would have to do…

OoO

If he had to read one more sodding report, he was going to go insane. He had read so many in the past few hours they had all begun to blur into one. The gist of them was always fairly similar, though: _this country has Issues._

Harry closed the folder he was reading and covered his face with his hands, needing a minute without staring at either screens or paper. He was interrupted less than thirty seconds later by the sound of his office door sliding open.

"Sorry Harry," he heard Ruth's voice say, "Is this a bad time?"

He looked up and gave her a weary smile. "Of course not. Unless you want me to read something, in which case it's a terrible time."

She looked at the file in her arms and smirked at him. "I could substitute the report with a verbal summary, if that makes it any better."

He did like the sound of her voice so he capitulated instantly. He pointed to the chair in front of his desk and she crossed the office to sit in it. As she sat down, he was certain he caught a flash of bare leg. He was equally certain she'd been wearing tights that morning. He decided not to think about how he knew that, or to dwell on the possible reasons she might've had for removing them. _You're a professional, Harry,_ he told himself. _Work. Bloody work._

Ruth crossed her legs and he caught another sight of her knee as she leant forward and dumped her folder on his desk.

Harry wondered if he was more old fashioned than he had previously thought; one flash of leg and he was feeling scandalised. In the best possible way, of course. Oh God, he hoped she wouldn't notice him staring. He fixed his eyes to her face and forced himself to listen intently as she gave him the lowdown on one of their would-be terrorists du jour.

OoO

Ruth had half her mind on telling Harry about the contents of her report and the other focused on wondering whether her suspicious were correct and he was, in fact, trying to stare at her legs from the other side of the table.

She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs as casually as she could to test out the theory.

Harry clearly wasn't listening to her and was instead staring at her knee. Well. That was interesting information. She stopped talking mid-explanation and looked at him instead, unable to keep a smile from forming on her face.

It took him ten long seconds to realise the room had gone quiet. "Er, right," he said. "Was that everything?"

"Not really, but we can cover the rest another time, when you're not so busy being a pervert." She said it playfully, but she was still shocked at herself the second it came out of her mouth.

She was just wondering whether making a run for the door would be a good option when Harry recovered himself somewhat.

"A pervert?" Luckily, he sounded amused.

_Oh well, might as well stick with it now. _"Mm. I thought it was good manners to ask a girl out for a drink before you start staring at her legs, Harry." She felt nerves start to form in the pit of her stomach, more than aware she was being much more forward than either one of them usually had the guts to be. "Unless I missed a bit while I was shaving them. Is that why…?" She trailed off, suddenly intent on investigating her calves for stray stubble.

"Ruth, would you like to go for a drink with me after work?"

Even though she'd been deliberately egging him on, hearing him say the words was still a surprise. "You're asking me out?"

"Well, I thought that would be the best thing to do in the circumstances."

"Right."

"That is, unless you didn't mean…"

"No. I mean, yes. I did mean that, er…" She shook herself, took a deep breath and started again. "What I mean to say is yes, Harry. I'd love to go for a drink with you after work."

He smiled at her, that nice smile that made her want to melt into him. "That's nice," he said. "I'll look forward to that."

"So will I."

"Good." Then, with one last lingering look that made her shudder, he switched back to business. "Now then, why don't you finish telling me all about our latest terrorist?"

"Right."

"And then you can tell me exactly what happened to your tights this morning."

Maybe he wasn't quite all back to business…

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><p><strong>Nope, no idea what exactly happened at the end here.<strong>

**Thanks for all the lovely prompts, by the way. I'm having far too much fun writing them all and hope people are enjoying reading them, too :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Prompt: Harry's crying. Ruth's got a handkerchief. For Camillo. Hope you like it! :)**

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><p>She found him on the roof, as she knew she would. The sky was still dark at this hour but a quick glance at her watch told her that, despite appearances, it was actually morning. Almost dawn, in fact.<p>

He must've heard her approaching but he gave no indication of it, instead staring out across the lights of the city, shoulders broad but hunched, like a humbled protector.

She stopped next to him and looked to the right: if she squinted hard enough she could just about see the place where the bomb had gone off yesterday, the security lights that had been set up around the area shining like a beacon. _This is where people died_, they seemed to say_. _Taunting, almost. Imploring.

Ruth felt isolated all of a sudden and turned to face Harry, wanting nothing more than to step into him and forget about everything for at least a moment. The tear tracks on his face stopped her before she could make a move towards him and the fact he didn't even bother to hide that he was crying made her breath catch.

He didn't look at her; he didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular. She supposed to focus on something might make it all seem worse - starker somehow. There was a lot to be said for seeing things through a haze. She thought that was why people drank.

She didn't know what to do for him. She was used to him brushing her off when he was feeling ravaged by the job, preferring to be alone to lick his wounds before coming back into the fray and carrying on. She understood it: every time something like this happened – something where people died – every single time, they emerged a little less green but a little more jaded.

It seemed like there was always innocence left to be lost.

Should she stay with him? Do something? Say something or touch him? She deliberated silently for a few seconds more before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a handkerchief.

She took Harry's hand and pressed the cloth into it, closing his fingers around it. She wanted him to look at her but wasn't sure how to react if he did. "It's clean," she said quietly, squeezing the hand that held the handkerchief and then letting go.

Ruth stepped away and gave him another moment, but he didn't react so she turned and started back across the roof. She'd not gone more than two steps when he turned around and stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"I'd like it if you stayed," he said, haltingly, his expression vulnerable and cavernous.

She nodded and moved back to him, standing closer than before, feeling the solid warmth of him against her shoulder. She looked down as he wiped his eyes with the handkerchief, lending him some privacy, although it seemed he didn't want it.

He lifted his hand and turned her face to his with one finger against her chin, giving her a small smile. He mouthed the words _thank you_ and then dropped his arm so it fell around her shoulders.

She reciprocated with an arm around his waist and then they stood there on the roof, sharing a bit of body heat and comfort and watching together as, gradually, the street lights started to go out and dawn finally began to break across the city.

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><p><strong>Normal fluffy service should be resumed soon. Thanks for reading :)<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Prompt: silver candlestick. For Rambling Scribe. It came out fluffier and more insane than I intended. I'll leave you to judge whether or not that's a good thing ;) It's set sometime during S10, or at least after S9. I think. Not entirely happy with it, but my efforts to work the silver candlestick into a Cluedo-style mystery didn't go to plan, so this happened instead…**

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><p>He asks her to dinner on his first day back at work. She's so out of practice at dealing with him and keeping him at arm's length, she says yes without hesitating. When he beams at her response, she smiles right back and they spend a few moments grinning like idiots until Dimitri comes in and announces it's time for the morning briefing.<p>

The day is so busy that Ruth doesn't get another chance to think about the invitation until it's time to go home and Harry stops by her desk as she's shaking out her coat. Ever the gentleman, he takes it from her and holds it up for her to put it on, hands lingering on her shoulders while her fumbling fingers do up the buttons. "Just give me one minute," he says as he steps away. "Then we can go for dinner."

It occurs to her that earlier, they hadn't specified a time or a place for their dinner, but it seems he's had one in mind all along. Either he was always expecting her to say yes, or he was so surprised when she actually did, he's decided to seize the moment before she inevitably does something to talk herself out of it. Still, she supposes, it doesn't have to be anything major. It's been several long weeks since she last saw him and it's most likely just a catch-up dinner between colleagues. He probably just wants to know about whatever misdemeanours and erstwhile shenanigans have been going on while he's been away, somewhere away from the Grid, where they won't be overheard.

Ruth knows it's nonsense. Of course, it's not just a dinner between colleagues. Dinner between colleagues would be limp sandwiches from the trolley and bitter coffee from the drinks machine, not whatever it is he has in mind. She finds she's looking forward to whatever it is it might be. Having some space from him, which was what she thought she wanted for a time, has made her resent the space between them and crave a little closeness… or a lot of closeness. Preferably a lot, but she's prepared to ease into it slowly.

Harry reappears beside her desk, looking a little nervous, but he's still smiling. "Shall we?" he asks, as though he thinks there's a chance she might say no.

Not a chance. "Let's go."

OoO

It's about fifteen minutes later when she twigs they're not going to a restaurant as she expected; they're going to his house. Suddenly she's nervous again, but she doesn't want to show it. She's not a blushing virgin or a romantic idealist (much) – she can't be, not after everything – but she knows the significance of doing something like this with Harry. Even if it is just a friendly, casual meal, the symbolism will be so much more. She knows that's why he's bought her here. It's a test, of sorts. If she stays, it could well be the start of something. If she goes, she suspects that will be it, no more chances.

She's not sure whether to laugh or slap him.

Harry leads her into his house, striding confidently, exactly as he should in his own home. Ruth lingers by the front door while he fiddles with an alarm panel behind the coat rack, typing in a code without bothering to hide which numbers he presses. She watches him and has the code memorised by the time he turns back to her and asks if he can take her coat.

He slides her coat off her shoulders and she muses that he's touched her more today than he has in years. She likes it. She catches his hand as he goes to hang up her coat and he stops, raising one eyebrow questioningly.

"Thanks," she says and squeezes his hand once before letting go.

He looks at her for a long moment and then shrugs himself out of it, putting her coat on the rack and then picking up two bits of folded paper from a small table by the door. "Chinese or Indian?" he asks, a little sheepishly, holding up the takeaway menus. "I didn't think I ought to take the risk of poisoning you with my cooking."

It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him that he could easily have taken her to a restaurant if he was worried about the quality of his cooking, but she doesn't want to see his face fall as she knows it will if she does. "Indian, then," she decides without even thinking about it, and they manage to get through the next couple of minutes fairly easily, looking at the menus and then looking at each other sheepishly when they aren't sure how to pronounce half of the names.

OoO

Harry points her through to the kitchen while he rings through the order. She's curious about his kitchen and is a bit surprised to find it so neat and apparently well-stocked.

She's even more surprised by the silver candlestick that's standing in the middle of the table. It's clearly not there by accident; he's set two places with cutlery and even put out plates and posh wine glasses.

So he was anticipating her agreeing to come tonight.

She thinks briefly about the presumptuous part of his nature that seems to be making a reappearance; about how, if they're going to keep doing this, she'll have to have a talk with him about it and make it clear that while a little presumption is sexy, too much of it will make the feminist in her mad.

But mainly she's thinking about the silver candlestick. Two placemats on the table signal an innocent dinner for two people. The presence of the good silver – with new candles in the holders, probably bought especially for the occasion – makes it a date.

It's excitement and anticipation bubbling in the pit of her stomach, not nerves, but the whole thing still feels more monumental than it did only a couple of minutes ago.

"Have a seat, Ruth," Harry says as he strolls into the kitchen.

She didn't even hear him finish on the phone. But she does as he suggests and sits herself down at his kitchen table, at something of a loss as to what to say to him.

"Are you okay?" Now he's standing next to her chair, pouring wine into her glass. Once the glass is filled, he turns to do his own and then looks back at her as if to say, _well?_

"I'm fine."

He doesn't seem convinced, but puts the wine back on the side and picks up a lighter instead. He lights the candles in the middle of the table with a shaking hand and she realises he's really nervous.

"Are you alright?" she asks him, confidence bolstered by the realisation she's not the only hopeless one in the room.

He puts down the lighter and sits opposite her, looking at her with what she thinks is a mixture of affection and relief. "Yes," he says, and she believes him.

"Good." She picks up her wine glass, takes a sip and then watches as the flickering candlelight glints on the glass. She looks up at Harry and the glint in his eye outshines everything.

OoO

By the time the food arrives, they're chatting amiably and watching each other without bothering to hide it. By the time the food is finished and they're on the last of the wine, they're both leaning in to the middle of the table, eager for more and wishing the clock would stay still. By the time she's got up the nerve to kiss the back of his neck while he's standing at the sink, it's getting late and the weight of the atmosphere around them tells her she won't be going home tonight. By the time they've stumbled out of the kitchen and towards the stairs, the candles on the table have burned down to stubs and the remnants of the flames falter until all that is left is the wax on the silver candlestick, the heat and passion having been taken with them when they left for his bedroom.

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><p><strong>Errm… yes. I'm not sure I'm happy with the ending. I got The Block. I might amend it once inspiration returns. Thanks for reading, though!<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Prompt: gazelle. For Lady J Scarlett. I think I'm at the end of my prompts list now, but if I've accidentally missed anyone's off (or anyone has a burning ambition to see another perfectly reasonable prompt turned into a slightly rambling collection of words such as this), please let me know and I'll do it ASAP. Cheers! :)**

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><p>Ruth stared at the TV, watching a BBC nature documentary with a feeling of growing horror. "Oh my God."<p>

Harry looked up from the book he was reading as he sat next to her on the sofa. "What?"

"That's a gazelle."

He glanced at the screen. "Yes, it is."

"It's getting eaten."

"So it is."

"By a lion."

"Your truly commendable powers of observation are clearly why we pay you the big money, Ruth."

"You gave me the codename 'gazelle' once."

Harry seemed quite amused. "I did."

Ruth wasn't quite so thrilled. She rounded on him. "All they ever do is get eaten on David Attenborough programmes!"

He wasn't entirely sure what he was meant to say in response. "Well, I think they're very nice," he eventually stuttered out. "And it's only a word."

"They get eaten by lions!"

Apparently, the codename 'gazelle' was causing her much belated offence. "That is true."

"Did you think I was going to get eaten by lions?"

"In the UK, nowhere in the vicinity of a zoo? Not really."

"You know what I mean."

He sighed and put down his book. "Yes, I do. And no, I didn't. Think that, I mean. I didn't think that. I still don't."

She didn't look entirely convinced.

Harry decided to bring out the big guns. "But since we're on the subject, if you're the gazelle, then, well…" He cleared his throat, already regretting his sentence but knowing there was no way out now, not when she was looking at him like _that_. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Does that mean I get to eat you?"

The thump she gave him in response suggested not, but the kiss that followed muddied the waters slightly. Harry distracted her with another kiss and wisely decided to shut up.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading :)<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed these random chapters so far. You all make me smile :)**

**Prompt: curtains. For Lady J. It went a bit weird. Naturally. **

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><p>"It was nice of you to come, Harry." The Russian man smiles and rests one hand on the gun at his hip.<p>

Harry doesn't answer. He thinks that if they get out of this, he doesn't care what Ruth says. He's marrying her. He's bloody marrying her and they are living in a house in Sussex and they will lie to their neighbours when they come over for tea and they're never thinking about MI-5 again.

Except they probably aren't going to get out of this. He doesn't even know where Ruth is. She might already be dead, although he doesn't think so. He imagines the Russians would have told him if they had killed her, just so they could see his reaction. They probably would've killed her in front of him. They still might.

He doesn't know why he has the sense that this is it – his final curtain call – but he can't shake it. It's been there ever since he received the phone call this morning, informing him that the reason Ruth hadn't shown up for work wasn't because she was ill or late, but because the bastard Russians had heard that Harry Pearce was prone to giving up state secrets for her and they wondered if he'd do it this time, too.

He'd heard her voice on the phone, briefly. "Don't you dare, Harry." That's all she'd said and he knew that she was telling him not to come, to do nothing.

But he had to. But this time, he doesn't have anything to give them except himself. And he knows that's not enough.

The Russian man is sliding the gun out of its holster. Harry's own gun is in an unknown location, taken from him as soon as he stepped out of his car. He has no back up; Dimitri and Tariq had covered him while he slipped out of the office against orders, but right now they're probably getting yelled at for their troubles and so won't be able to help him.

_Where the hell is Ruth?_ He's wondering what the point of it all is. Are they really just going to shoot him? Do they have a plan? On the face of it, the operation seems a little amateurish, but he knows he'd be foolish to underestimate them. The man standing in front of him with the gun certainly seems solid enough to do some damage.

"What do you want?" Harry asks him, casually, as though he really doesn't care what happens either way.

"Finally." The Russian man laughs. "Some sense out of you." He cocks the gun and points it at Harry's chest. "Tell me where the wave project is being stored."

He has no idea what the wave project is. In a way it's good, because it means there's no danger of committing treason, intentionally or otherwise. On the other hand, it's bad because his ignorance means he has even less to barter with. He stares at the man, hoping it might unnerve him.

The man steps forward, not at all unnerved. "Tell me, Harry. Where is the wave project?"

Harry pretends to be considering it. "Have you tried the ocean?"

A bullet is shot into the floor near his feet. "Don't be funny," the Russian man says calmly, apparently unaffected by the noise and the shock of dust that explodes from the concrete. "You know as well as I do what it is."

Actually, no, he really doesn't. But he can't say that. And he can't lie and pretend he does, either. As soon as he got found out, there'd be trouble. Well. More trouble. He changes tack and lets himself begin to get angry. "And you know as well as I do that I'm not even going to consider helping you until you give me proof that my colleague is okay." He tries not to sound too desperate, but the word 'colleague' trips him up and he might as well have just come out and said 'the woman I love'.

The man knows it, too. He tilts his head, his expression condescending. "She's fine. I promise."

Not good enough. "I don't believe you."

Something in his expression must convince the man that Harry's serious and he shouts something in Russian, calling towards the door that leads back to a corridor and the way in – and out. Nothing happens for a long moment, so the man shouts again and then a few seconds later, the door swings open. The sight it reveals is a little bit backwards in terms of what Harry is expecting.

He has been expecting to see Ruth with a gun to her head and another large Russian man holding the gun. Instead, he sees Ruth forcing a gun against the temple of someone he takes to be an accomplice of the man in front of him. Her face is bloody and she looks like she'd rather just collapse against the wall, but the man in front of her is in worse shape. She's holding his arm to steady him and pressing the gun firmly to his head. She looks pissed off. The man she's holding looks mortified, and as though he has given in.

Harry has never been so bloody proud in his life. He wants to stop and laugh and applaud and possibly construct a congratulatory sentence using the word 'kickarse', but there's no time. He takes the moment of distraction and launches himself at the man in front of him, barrelling into him and knocking him to the ground. The gun goes skittering across the floor. He takes the man's head in his hands and cracks it against the concrete, not hard enough to kill him but definitely hard enough to incapacitate him for a while. Certain he's out cold, Harry stands and goes over to Ruth. He gives her a smile, then takes the other man's shoulders in his grip to steady himself and jams his knee into the guy's groin. He goes down in an instant.

Not bad for a curtain call.

OoO

It's not Sussex, but it's fairly perfect as it is. Harry's not quite sure how they ended up in the Peak District, but he's not complaining. Not that there's much to complain about with scenery like _that_ right outside the door. He never even complains about the slightly cheesy fact their village is called Hope. He can't. He chose it.

It's a Saturday and they're shopping in Sheffield, picking out curtains for their recently moved into home. This sort of outing used to fill him with dread, but now the decision over whether or not to get blackout lining on the curtains in their bedroom seems like a monumentally important consideration and he's loving every minute of it.

"What colour do you want?" Ruth asks him, staring at the sea of drapery in the home department of John Lewis.

He might be loving it, but that doesn't mean he's any good at it. "Well, the walls are blue, so… something that goes with blue."

"Good thinking. But I thought you wanted to repaint?"

He thinks about it. "Something that goes with everything, then."

"Cream?"

"Sounds wise."

Ruth heads off to the pale-coloured curtain section and the numerous shades of fabric that could all be counted as 'cream'. He's about to follow her, but something catches Harry's eye. "I really like these ones."

She stops and looks at the curtains he's pointing to. "Those are children's curtains."

They are indeed children's curtains. They're blue with white and yellow shapes on them. Stars and moons and planets. They'd look great in the back bedroom of their house, the one that is currently ostensibly reserved for 'guests' but has been left empty. He suddenly really, really wants those curtains. He looks at Ruth and knows he probably has a ridiculously daffy expression on his face. He doesn't care. "I know."

"But what – ?"

"Ruth," he cuts her off. He reaches out, takes her hand and draws her towards him. He stares into her eyes and wills her to see what he's thinking.

"Are you suggesting that…?"

He nods. "Yes."

She doesn't answer him but she has a small smile on her face and the warmth of it gives him hope and makes him think that maybe they have one last big adventure left in them, after all.

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><p><strong>*cough* Nope, don't know what happened with that last bit. I gave into the lure of the fluff. Thanks for reading :)<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**Prompt: text message. For Spooky fan. Thanks for the prompt :) And, as always, thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. This one went a bit odd. Again. Oops.**

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><p>"She has nothing to do with it, Harry!"<p>

"That doesn't matter! The fact is, she might still know something. She has the potential to be useful to us."

"You can't just leave her in a cell."

"She's not in a cell."

"She might as well be." Ruth turned away from him, not wanting to look at him. Professional disagreements between her and Harry weren't uncommon – in fact it was important that they had them, to make sure they had all bases covered – but it was rare they rowed so vehemently.

Harry leant over his desk, fists pressing into the wood as he loomed towards her. "That isn't really top of my list of concerns right now."

"Holding an innocent woman against her will because her husband might or might not be involved in a terror plot? You don't call that concerning?" She could understand his argument, of course she could. The country had to come first. But at the same time, the country was made up of people. People like the woman stuck in their interrogation room even though she hadn't done anything wrong, other than marry an arsehole. She mattered too.

"Her husband maybe wanting to blow up a British landmark is, I hope I don't have to tell you, much more concerning than his wife having to make do with vending machine coffee for a couple of days." He was using his righteous tone of voice, the one that said _I'm in charge and don't you even think of challenging me._

That tone of voice rarely filled her with sympathy for him. "She doesn't drink coffee," Ruth muttered, speaking to the desk and trying to rein in her temper.

"Pardon?" Harry was still looming, not bothering to hide the fact he was angry.

"I said she doesn't drink coffee. She's pregnant."

"Well, she can drink tea then." He jutted out his chin, entirely obstinate, even though the slight flicker of his gaze gave away his guilt.

Ruth looked at her watch. "Right. Fine. Unless there's anything else you need, I'm going home."

"Fine."

She turned and left the office, marching quickly away from the Grid and then out into the evening air. Her pulse was still racing and she could still feel the aftermath of adrenaline from their argument. She walked quickly towards the bus stop, but stopped abruptly in the middle of the pavement when her phone beeped, signalling the arrival of a text message.

She pulled her phone from her bag and pressed the button to read the message. She couldn't help the smile that threatened to spread over her face when she saw it was from Harry. _Sorry for yelling. I hope our professional disagreement hasn't affected our dinner plans for tonight?_

She sighed. She had half a mind to tell him that actually, yes, their professional disagreement had most definitely affected their dinner plans. But they had made a deal that no matter what happened at work, they would do everything they could to keep it away from what happened out of work. She wasn't about to let that deal crumble at the first sign of trouble, especially when he had just offered the proverbial olive branch. Ruth typed out an answering message and sent it to Harry. _Bring some nice wine and I'll consider forgiving you. See you later._

Maybe, she thought, the day would come when a professional disagreement would spill over into their personal lives, but it definitely wasn't going to be today. Especially when he was sort of right about the whole thing – not that she planned on admitting that, at least not for a while.

Ruth was just getting on the bus when Harry's acknowledgement came through. _Nice wine it is. Can't wait. Love you._

She smiled. _Love you, too._

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><p><strong>Couldn't resist the mush, there ;)<strong>

**Thanks for reading. **


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